


Stumbling on Accidentals in the C Major of Life

by bbcphile



Series: Triad [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Music, violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 11:49:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbcphile/pseuds/bbcphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John sighed, counted to ten, then marched over to the microscope and wrenched the slide out (being careful not to damage it), impervious to Sherlock’s righteously indignant expression. “Not this time, Sherlock.  This time, you and I are going to sit down and we’re going to talk about  . . .whatever the hell is going on.  So, what were you doing last night?”</p><p>Also known as, John stands up for himself, deduces Sherlock, and gets a musical surprise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stumbling on Accidentals in the C Major of Life

“ . . . So . . . “ John paused, awkwardly standing in the threshold between the kitchen and parlor.  He wasn’t quite sure how to start this conversation.  After all, they had spent all day NOT talking about it, so it seemed almost unnatural to actually bring it up.  But then again, he spent so much time running after Sherlock and feeling hopelessly behind on cases that he couldn’t afford to be behind on something involving their . . . partnership? Business arrangement?  Friendship? He certainly hoped it would be the latter, but God only knew what went on in that daft genius’ mind.

“Hmm?” Sherlock hummed in reply, not taking his eyes from the slide on the microscope.

“Are we going to talk about what happened last night?”  John asked patiently, while reminding himself that throttling his roommate wouldn’t actually help matters.

“What?” Sherlock growled caustically, having finally become irritated enough at the interruption to drag himself away from the experiment.

“I said, are we—“

“Well, apparently you are. I’m going to sit here, ignore you, and try to solve this case.  I think that’s a bit more important than sorting out whatever’s on your mind, don’t you?” Sherlock’s biting tone would have driven away someone less determined, or at least less familiar with his strategies for getting out of most non-case-related conversations.

John sighed, counted to ten, then marched over to the microscope and wrenched the slide out (being careful not to damage it), impervious to Sherlock’s righteously indignant expression. “Not this time, Sherlock.  This time, you and I are going to sit down and we’re going to talk about  . . .whatever the hell is going on.  So, what were you doing last night?”

Instead of answering, Sherlock shot him his most condescending, distain-filled glare in his repertoire, the one he used to save for Anderson on his especially stupid days. 

“No, Sherlock, you’re not getting out of it by intimidating me, either,” he barked in his best military-I’m-pulling-rank voice.  “And don’t look so shocked! I may not be the one-and-only consulting detective, but I _am_ the only expert on you, which means I know your tricks.“ John was almost tempted to laugh at Sherlock’s expression—his eyes and mouth open enough to suggest that his hyper-analytical, imperviously imperial brain had been temporarily taken offline.  John’s moment of glory was cut short by Sherlock’s shift into his second favorite mood; an all-out strop of epic proportion. 

“Fine, Sherlock.  If you’re going to sit there moping, I’ll just do your job, shall I?,” asked John, his voice dripping with sarcasm.  “Let’s see, what is it you always tell me? I should never theorize without first knowing all the facts, is that it?  Well, let’s go over them.  Fact #1: I was asleep.  You remember sleep, don’t you?  It’s that thing that ordinary humans need in order to function.  Fact #2: I was in my room. With my door closed.  Because there’s this thing called privacy that people like, because unless you’re sleeping with someone, you probably don’t want to run into them during the night.  But we’ll come back to that. As you always say, I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. Fact #3: I woke up in the middle of the night because I needed to go to the toilet.  It was 3 in the morning.  Do you know why I remember the time, Sherlock? No? It’s because after I stumbled out of bed, mostly asleep, to walk to the toilet, and STUMBLED OVER MY ROOMMATE WHO HAD BEEN SITTING OUTSIDE MY DOOR GOD ONLY KNOWS WHY and fell flat on my face, and after I had yelled at him for practically giving me a heart attack and a broken nose, I checked the clock in case it was almost 7 and you’d just decided for some unknown reason to wake me up for work yourself. But no, it was the middle of the night!  So, those are the facts.  Now, will you tell me why the hell you were acting as my own personal fire hazard last night?” 

Sherlock affected disinterest and refused to make eye contact throughout the rant.  Although John was correct that he had started out in a bit of a strop, as the increasingly hostile diatribe continued, his mind raced through all the possible responses he could make to the question he knew was coming at the end.  To his horror, he couldn’t think of a single response he thought would lessen John’s rage.  What could he do? _I was about to wake you up to ask you to join me on a case, but I must have overestimated how far I could push myself without eating and the next thing I knew, you tripped over me?_ No, that would make him feel guilty for yelling and he’d have to manufacture details of a case.  _I was inspecting the floorboards because I’m doing a comprehensive comparison of different types of wood grains and knotholes._ No, he’d see through that if he asked any sort of follow-up question. _I was timing the time it takes for a marble to roll from your bedroom door to the toilet_. _.  . No, even you wouldn’t do something THAT idiotic, Sherlock! THINK! THINK! THINK! SAY SOMETHING! WHAT IF HE LEAVES!!_

“Ok, if you’re not going to tell me, I’ll have to make my own deductions.” John began, his deliberately steady voice cutting through Sherlock’s panic-induced haze.  “Option #1: Did you do some ridiculous experiment in my room, or the area outside my room, and you were monitoring the results?  If you put some chemical on the floor that only reacts to the rubber on the soles of my shoes and only at 3am, or something equally mental, then I can understand, but I need you to tell me in advance so we don’t risk life and limb again.  Option #2: Are you experimenting on me again? Because I thought we established, after the shitshow that was Baskerville that you were never, under any circumstances, to experiment on me again, especially not with drugs, chemicals, or anything that could have side effects or retrigger my PTSD.  I don’t think either of us want a repeat of the week after that gas: “You’ll be fine once you’ve excreted it,” hah. Not one of your finest predictions, was it?  Option #3: Are you convinced that I’m going to decide this  . . .whatever it is, is too much work and slip out in the middle of the night?  As I’ve said, I’m still angry at what you did, but I moved back here to be with you and I’m assisting you with cases again.  I gave you my word that I’m staying, and I actually do keep my promises. Except for when I’m falling arse over tit because my crazy flatmate was doing his best impression of a doorstop, and then refusing to explain himself, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”  John paused, but when Sherlock’s only response was a quick glance and half of a wry smile, he continued, but with a less steady tone.  “Ok, fine. Time for option #4: Are we in danger? Has someone made a threat against my life, and rather than trust me, you’re trying to guard me while keeping me in the dark? Because that worked so well last time.  Do you remember when you came back, after you . . .” he paused to clear his throat. “after  . . . that?  You promised that you would never try to do anything like that again.  That you would always trust me and that things went better when you included me in your plans.  What changed, Sherlock?  Because, seriously, this is the only option I have left, and I just don’t—“

“NO!” Sherlock yelled, suddenly jumping up from his seat, all his attention focused on John.  “I’ve kept my promise, of course I have!  I work best when you assist me, so it wouldn’t be logical to—“

“Logical be dammed!” John shouted in response, taking a step towards Sherlock.  “How is anything we’ve ever done logical? Hell, how is your sitting outside my door at three in the morning logical?  If everything you do is so logical, then why aren’t you sharing your rational-and-carefully-thought-out justification?  Maybe you’re not as good at planning as you think you are!”

“Of course I am! My reasoning was perfectly sound!” Sherlock exclaimed, escalating his volume and speed as he continued.  “Your nightmares had returned with increasing frequency since your argument with Harry last month, and after performing a comprehensive series of experiments, I determined that you don’t have nightmares if I play a slow violin solo composed between 1880 and 1920 within five minutes of your falling asleep! I was sitting front of your door because I fell asleep while waiting to play because I haven’t slept in a month, murder investigation or not, because _this_ was my new case! Don’t impugn my scientific skills or forethought—it’s beneath you!”

For a second, all John could do was blink at Sherlock, both of them frozen in place.  “Hah, no, but nice try, Sherlock,” John said, his sarcasm breaking the silence.  “What do you take me for?  First of all, there’s no way your “results” are real, they’re much too specific.  And second, do you actually expect me to believe, after all this time, that you would have discovered sentiment?  You’d get bored sitting there every night. I’m really not that interesting.  And how dare you bring my nightmares into this! You know that I don’t talk about them for a reason, and yet you’re using them as a way of distracting attention from whatever your real reason was, and I --“

John had been gesticulating wildly as he walked towards Sherlock throughout the whole speech, his normal military bearing overridden by his anger.  His rant stopped abruptly when he stood mere inches away from Sherlock, and his eyes finally met the target of his fury.  He looked . . . hurt.  Betrayed, even.  John had always known his friend was a good actor, but even he hadn’t known that Sherlock’s features could rearrange themselves into that expression.  Before Sherlock had a chance to school his face into its normal guise of condescending indifference, the truth hit John like a slap in the face.

“Wait, really?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to deny all accusations, then looked befuddled as he realized that the game was up and for once, he was unable to have the last word.  He closed his mouth and looked away, unable to meet his friend’s eyes, looking sheepish for the first time since he was five and Mycroft caught him wearing a makeshift eyepatch and puzzling over a child’s treasure map that he had received after sending away cereal box tops.

John let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, and ran a hand through his hair, then shook his head and sat down with a thump in his armchair, his rage leaving him as quickly as it had come.  “Christ, Sherlock.  You couldn’t just have said that at the beginning?”

At this, Sherlock riled again.  “Oh, right, that would have gone splendidly.  Not to worry, John, I was just listening outside your door as you slept to play music because those nightmares you consistently deny having and refuse to discuss have come back.  I’m sure you wouldn’t have put that on the ‘not good’ list and would have been perfectly understanding.”

John visibly deflated some more when he realized he didn’t have an answer.  “Well, yes, you’re probably right.  Look, I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to be such a prick about the whole thing.  It’s kind of sweet, in a completely mad way. So, um, thanks for that, I guess. That was, um, good?” he mumbled, his eyes dropping from his friend’s face and missing the fleeting look of unabashed relief and affection that coursed through it before his normal mask was restored once more.

In the awkward silence that ensued, both John and Sherlock stared at the floor, neither willing to look at the other. Finally, John’s embarrassed frown turned into an amused smirk.  “So. Violin solos between 1880 and 1920?”

“Especially “Scheherazade” and Vaughan Williams’ “The Lark Ascending.” Sherlock returned as he affected clinical disinterest.  “I have quite detailed notes, should you chose to peruse them.”

At this, John looked up at Sherlock, who watched him from the corner of his eye.  After a second, John started giggling and Sherlock joined in, the two of them laughing in relief like schoolboys. The laughter trailed off into companionship, as they were left in smiling silence.

“Right, well, I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.  Fancy chinese?” John asked, a slight hesitation to his voice.

“That’s fine.  I have no cases at the moment. Go ahead and order for me; you know my preferences,” Sherlock responded.

“Right, fine. That’s  . . . fine .  Um, Sherlock?  After I order, I was wondering, that is, if it’s not too much trouble . . . .” John cleared his throat and shook his head, clenching his fists as he readied himself.  “Would you mind playing something on the violin before dinner?”

Sherlock’s head whipped around to face John, and he looked at him in surprise.  “You want to hear me play?”

John shuffled his feet slightly, responding with slightly less confidence than before.  “Well, you either play while I’m asleep or when you’re on a case and trying to think, and if it’s the first option, then I don’t really get to listen, and if it’s the second, then you’re usually making painful screeching noises.  It would be nice to hear one of these pieces you’ve been serenading me with when I’m actually conscious.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, piercing into John’s as he tried to think of any other reason his friend might have made this request, before finally deciding that it was, in fact, genuine.  He nodded in agreement. “’The Lark Ascending’? You seem to find it especially calming after a stressful day, possibly because of the text on which it’s based, more likely because of the circumstances of its composition—“

“Alright, genius, you can explain later.  After you’ve played it,” John cut him off with a grin.  “Let me just make the call, and then we can start.  Thanks for this!” he said, as he walked towards the door to go to his room where he had left his mobile.

Sherlock watched him intently as he left the room.  Once he had gone, he stood up and walked over to his violin case, carefully taking out the bow and sliding the bow up and down the rosin.  He would give John the performance of his life, and he smiled and closed his eyes as he thought through the sweeping phrases and of John’s reaction.  He picked up his violin and began tuning it, a quiet accompaniment to John’s melodious voice as it travelled down to the floor below. 


End file.
